


Like Gravity

by fluffernutter8



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, F/M, Steggy Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9069142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffernutter8/pseuds/fluffernutter8
Summary: Special Agent Peggy Carter hadn't really wanted an assignment so close to Christmas. On the upside, her temporary partner is better than most. On the downside, things turn disastrous nearly immediately.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessoftheworlds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/gifts).



> My very best, most delightful wishes to princess-of-the-worlds, my Steggy secret Santa, and my very sincerest apologies that I could not seem to write anything super duper Christmassy for you. I hope you enjoy despite that!

Before this moment, Peggy had planned to spend Christmas Eve on her sofa, drinking good whiskey, eating lasagna, and watching back-to-back movie musicals. She’d even invited Angie, if she was able to get away from her family celebration in time.

“If you wanted to have the holidays off, you shoulda gone into a different line of work,” her section chief, Phillips, tells her with his typical brusqueness when she mentions it. “And anyway, it’s still four days out. Maybe you’ll have this all wrapped up by then.”

Peggy snorts. She’s been working this particular op for nearly three years now. Odds are that it won’t suddenly finish itself off neatly. “What’s the latest?”

“We’ve got an informant in who’s saying that something big’s coming. We need you to reestablish your cover, gain whatever intel you can, report back to see if we need to bust things up.”

“When did we gain an informant?” she asks, opening the file Phillips had handed her at the beginning of the meeting. She had assumed it was a formality; she has been on the case from the beginning, and has never been surprised by something so large.

“She’s Thompson’s asset. He’s been upstate by himself a few times and started working with her.” Peggy’s worked with Phillips for a long time. He takes her coolly raised eyebrow in the manner it was intended. “I know he’s a snaky sumbitch, but what she’s told us has been important so far, and wasn’t planted as far as we can tell. They’ve lost some people that they couldn’t afford to because of her.”

“Has she mentioned anything else?”

“Nope. ‘Something big coming soon’ is all we’ve got now. So go earn your keep and tell me the rest.”

“Thompson’s been such a good boy for you lately, why not have him go fetch?” She keeps it light and a little pouty, but Phillips isn’t fooled. Peggy Carter has a mind going a thousand miles an hour. She uses her time for intelligence, not petty reassurance.

“He’s got a habit of getting cozy and making mistakes if he’s undercover too long. I need better than that.” He looks down, straightening a few papers on his desk. “And we’re a little bottom of the barrel because most people took vacation this week, so the partner I got for this has never been in the field and I trust you to put up with that.” She slams the folder as best she can and makes a noise, indignant and barely dignified. As reluctant as he was to mention it, Phillips looks up and laughs. “Merry Christmas, Carter.”

* * *

Standing around in a shopping mall three days before Christmas was never in the plan at all, but it’s as good a meeting place as any. Peggy holds a shopping bag in one hand, fake scrolling through her phone with the other. Really she’s looking around, trying to analyze who’s likely to be her partner for this. Maybe the man in the heavy orange coat who looks like a stereotypical suburban father? She’ll have to get him into less noticeable outerwear if so...

“Maybe we should go look for ornaments now.”

The man standing in front of her, speaking the code phrase carefully and determinedly, is noticeable in his own way, slight and fair, with pretty cheekbones and romantic eyelashes and hair falling into his eyes. He has chosen forgettable shades of clothing, pale blues and tans, nothing too new, nothing costly. He’ll do well enough, as these things go.

“We need a new star for the top of the tree,” she says back, picking up her bags and leading him out to where her car is parked. Once inside, she turns up the heat and unzips her coat.

“The drive is long enough,” she says, pulling out of the parking space. “You’re permitted to get comfortable.”

Even the way he settles back into the seat looks formal and awkward. She pretends not to see.

“I’m Agent Carter.”

“Rogers.” He clears his throat. “Agent Rogers.” He keeps glancing toward her and then staring back through the windscreen. She would have hoped that obvious tells like that would have been trained out of him.

She considers engaging in some get-to-know-you chit-chat, but rejects the idea. It isn’t all that far from the mall to the compound in Lake Bonaparte. Better to finish with the important things first. “What have you been told so far, Agent Rogers?”

“We’re going to investigate the Disciples of Zola,” he says immediately. “They’re a mafia-cult hybrid, and they’ve been under investigation for over three years.”

“Indeed.” She waits half a beat for him to go on, but out of the corner of her eye notices the embarrassed downward glance. She mentions nothing about it; he was eager enough to tell her what he knew that she guesses he’d like to be able to give her more. It’s not his fault that no one bothered to brief him. “The Disciples are a small group, fewer than a hundred, but they’re powerful. They split off from a Russian family a few years ago, and while they still engage in the traditional enterprises- drugs, prostitution, protection payoffs from local businesses- they’ve formed their own religious sect which follows their leader, Aleksandr Petrov, with a devotion that’s quite remarkable.”

“How long have you been in contact with them?”

“From the beginning. There was an explosion in New Jersey that was linked to them nearly four years ago, and the Bureau wanted someone to gain some information because they were a new player. I posed as something of a religious pilgrim, someone taken in by Petrov’s messianic rhetoric. The Disciples appreciate having civilian devotees who are willing to help obscure their more disreputable endeavors. I’ve returned periodically since then, so my cover is well-established, and this should be a brief visit, to confirm some information we’ve received and gather more details.”

“I guess you’re an old hand,” says Agent Rogers. “I’m glad to have someone like you showing me the ropes.” And for the first time, she sees him smile.

* * *

“Masha!” Peggy isn’t sure how he treats other adopted Disciples, but Aleksandr Petrov has a habit of always greeting her personally when she arrives at the compound. He must have someone inform him when she’s arrived at the gate. And although he is fairly handsome for an older man, confident and powerful, certain of her faith in him, he has never even tried to touch her beyond a kiss to the cheek in greeting or farewell.

There’s something strangely, backwardly foreboding in that.

“I’m sorry to surprise you,” she says, breathless and starry-eyed. “I just...I realized that I hadn’t been here in so long, and my new friend has never even met you.”

“Ah, Masha,” says Petrov fondly. “Always with the new friends.” He holds out a hand to the man beside her. “I am Aleksandr Petrov.”

Rogers, shaking his hand, says, “Roger Barnes,” filling in the alias they’d decided on with acceptable smoothness. She’d recommended he pick something that he would remember easily, and it seems to have worked.

Petrov leads them inside. “You seem very nice,” he says over his shoulder to Rogers, barely glancing at him. “But my Masha is always here with new friends. She needs to settle on a good, big Russian boy, I think.” He winks at Peggy, who allows herself to blush and glance away, hiding a giggle.

At the beginning she had kept coming with new partners, sometimes for logistical reasons, sometimes at their request, but mostly at her own. She knew that it was not ideal to have friction with so many of her fellow agents, but she also knew that her problems with them were not to be taken lightly. Having a partner required a tremendous amount of trust, and she didn’t always feel supported by the others. Phillips thought highly enough of her to allow her new partners when she became fed up with the forced caution and defensiveness because she didn’t know that she could rely on their skills or fortitude.

Regardless, what might have been a liability, something that would make Petrov and the Disciples suspicious, had been turned into a key part of the undercover profile. Masha, daughter of Russian parents, immigrant from London, adrift without permanent friends, perpetually selling herself in search of love, of connection, was a perfect target.

They come to sit at a large wooden table. Three small glasses are arranged in a comically outsized triangle at one end. Petrov pours shots easily and gestures for them to sit opposite him.

“We were actually just getting used to your last friend,” Petrov says, raising his vodka. Peggy distracts herself, raising hers and brushing her hair behind her left ear- the sign she and Rogers had agreed upon for ‘situation normal’- partially because Rogers can’t quite seem to hide the way his eyes want to narrow at Petrov, and partially so she doesn’t make a face thinking of pretending to flirt with Thompson. Rogers quickly raises his own glass, and they toast together, drinking them down quickly. Rogers breathes out heavily.

“Where is everybody, Aleks?” Peggy asks. She can hear people in the other rooms of the compound, but it’s quieter than usual.

“They’re getting ready,” Petrov says, waving a hand. “Masha, I’m glad to see you, although I will miss your old friend. He had so many interesting things to say when he came to visit last time.”

“What do you-?” Peggy starts, and then she hears Rogers make a choked sound beside her. She looks toward him, squinting suddenly blurry eyes to see him slide down in his seat.

“You should choose your friends more carefully, my Masha,” says Petrov calmly, and then everything goes dark and still and silent.

* * *

The room where they wake up is wooden. It’s not somewhere she recognizes from the compound, and the building material doesn’t match the rest of the structures there. It’s also insulated far more poorly.

She and Rogers are sitting back to back, cuffed at the arms and legs to chairs, wrists at their sides so they can’t pick their way out. Not that such a thing would be easy. They’ve been stripped of nearly everything, so that Peggy is left in her close-fitting black undershirt and trousers. Her hair relaxes its way onto her face; even her hairpins have been removed. If she strains her head back, she can see Rogers has only a plain white T-shirt and khakis. She settles back to see if her pistol is still resting in the small of her back, but obviously that was too much to hope for.

“Did they let you keep your socks, at least?” she asks quietly, looking around the room. It is windowless and very dim, the only light coming from around the doorframe, and that’s a tease, really. Enough light that, if she could lift it, she’d be able to see her hand in front of her face, but little more than that. And not knowing how long they’ve been here is disorienting and a nuisance.

Rogers huffs out a little laugh. “This would be pretty miserable without ‘em.”

“I can’t say we’re in a much better spot armed with them.”

She can see him turning toward her out of the corner of her vision. “What happened? He drank too.”

“It was probably something applied to the glasses before our arrival,” she says grimly. “We always make a toast together, but if my last partner revealed something, they could have been prepared for this.” She turns to face forward again; better not to get a crick in the neck, as she doesn’t know what will be required of her. It will also prevent him from catching a glimpse of her expression, the self-recrimination there as she berates herself for getting complacent, for trusting Thompson not to have mucked things up.

They sit quietly for a few moments. She continues trying to examine the space they’re in. Other than the chairs they’re on, it is absolutely bare. The wooden walls don’t seem to have cameras, and she can’t hear the electronic buzz of microphones. She can hear muffled voices, as if down a hallway, but nothing, not even breathing or shifting weight outside of their door. It likely means that they aren’t being guarded or listened to particularly closely. A little insulting, but ultimately helpful.

“I’m Steve,” Rogers says quietly a while, adding an even softer, “I guess once we’re at this point, you should know my first name.”

She can’t help smiling at that. “Peggy. I assume you’ve never been in such a situation?”

“They pulled me from Records Management,” he says, voice taut. “So, no.”

Their position is beneficial, just for the moment, as her face glances on surprise before returning to neutral. She thinks that would have hurt him. She concentrates on the shivering twitches of his muscles where his back and arms are pressed against hers. “Not much undercover work or hostage taking there, I would imagine,” she says, once she can manage a light voice.

He snorts. “Other than feeling like every day is a hostage scenario. You seem to know what you’re doing, though.”

“Not my first time,” she says. “I do hope this is the kind where they feed us. It’s far less pleasant otherwise.”

As if on cue, footsteps come down the hallway: two heavy pairs of feet, and a lighter step. Peggy braces herself for the light as the door opens, blinking through it so she can catalogue two of the bruisers she’s seen around the compound- she’s never learned their names, but she knows Petrov uses them almost exclusively as muscle- and a redheaded girl, dainty like a stiletto blade.

“Stand there while I feed them,” she says to the men, stepping into the room with a tray. “It will probably take twenty minutes, maybe thirty. There is plenty of time left in the match.”

The two trade looks, their brains working in tandem to calculate things. “No,” says one finally. “You feed them, we will guard the end of the hallway. Nothing will happen. There is only one way out, and they’re all chained up. Do your job and we will do ours.”

The girl frowns, looking like she wants to yell at them, but they clap each other on the back and return down the hall.

The girl unfolds the legs of her tray, muttering in Russian. She takes a glass of water off and approaches Peggy.

“Hello, Natasha.”

With the door still open, she can see the sliver of Natasha’s smile. “My name twin,” she says, lifting the glass so Peggy can drink. It seems pointless to refuse; they’ve already been drugged and if Petrov wanted them killed, he could do that as well.

“Some people are quite amused by simple rhyming suffixes,” Peggy says blandly, as if her alter-ego were not one of them. She knows Natasha’s parents were former Disciples who passed away and left her in Petrov’s custody. She’s has seen her around the compound since the beginning, when Natasha was around eight, but all Peggy had ever said to her was, “Natasha, Masha, listen to our twin names!” in the type of stupid, falsely cheery voice that children hate.

At her back, Steve gives a softly wheezing breath.

“Sasha is upset with you,” Natasha says in a quiet sing-song, moving on to the pirozhki, which she lets Peggy take her own bites of. “He can’t let you go and he can’t figure out who you are, so we don’t know if we should get rid of you or look to trade with someone.”

Peggy swallows. “Surely he has our fingerprints by now.”

Natasha shrugs. “His contact is slow with the results. We are waiting.” The bit of implicit threat there is disconcerting coming from a child.

Natasha stands quiet. Peggy chews another bite. In the silence, there is only Steve’s catching breath. Peggy can feel him shivering harder against her.

“Give him some instead,” she says the next time Natasha brings up the pirozhki.

Natasha shrugs and moves around behind Peggy but returns the next second. “I don’t think he can eat anything,” she says, looking a little nervous.

Peggy presses Steve’s upper arm lightly, the closest she can get to touching him.

“I’m okay,” he says, although he clearly is not. The words are carefully rationed, as if he needs to consider how much air he can use.

“Not your first brush with asthma?” Peggy says, staring ahead, trying for calm. If he dies…

He makes a negative sound. Natasha stares, bending her fingers.

“Dima has asthma too,” she says quietly. “I can get his medicine. He only uses it if we are running outside and we have not been allowed to play outdoors in several days.” She glances toward the door, then says to Peggy, her words low and rushed, “They said I should come back in a little to take you to the toilet. I can bring it then.”

Natasha should never have suggested anything that would contradict Petrov, like she should have reminded the grunts that the orders to stand watch came from him. Peggy knows this, but says, “Yes,” immediately, just as Steve manages a shallow, “No.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she snaps at him, but he only addresses Natasha.

“That will be dangerous for you,” he says. “We’re supposed to protect you.” The absolute, simple sincerity of the words is undercut slightly by his regulation of his own breathing.

Peggy tries to twist to look at him. Natasha, beside Peggy, stills, except for her eyes, looking Steve over as she analyzes him.

“I’ll be back with it,” she finally says. She lets Peggy finish the food and both glasses of water, and steps quickly out.

In the dark, Peggy talks softly. She tells Steve about her favorite and least favorite coworkers (Thompson features prominently), about the time she had a standoff with a troubled optometrist (“I diffused things, and everything was quite by the book, but I spent the entire time engaged in eye-related wordplay. He never even noticed”), and about the boxing gym near her home where she regularly beats anyone cocky enough to challenge her.

The sound of his breathing, ragged despite his seeming calm, is maddening. All she can do is talk.

Natasha returns. Peggy tries to turn back, but she can only judge by what she hears: the shaking and clicking of the inhaler, the sharp intake of Steve’s breath, then the relieved in and out of air coming smoothly from behind her. They relax back into each other.

“Thank you, Natasha,” says Steve. Peggy can feel his arm trying to move away from where it’s handcuffed, to touch her so he can convey his gratitude.

“You should just worry about breathing,” says Natasha, sounding annoyed, the way an older child might act toward a younger one.

The bruisers come in, elbowing each other and talking in Russian about whatever game they were watching. One of them tosses a key indifferently to Natasha, who unlocks Peggy’s handcuffs and then relocks them so the two of them are attached. One of the bruisers stands over her shoulder. The other takes Steve.

It’s probably slightly flattering that they think she’s the greater threat, but she likely couldn’t get away with Steve and Natasha unharmed.

Steve is already chained in the chair again with his back to her when she gets back. “Thank you for your help, Natasha,” Peggy says, sitting politely.

“I like him better than the last one you brought here,” Natasha informs her plainly. She checks the cuffs, then moves to stand framed in the door. “Watch out for spiders.”

Peggy’s head jerks. She remembers Phillips’s office, a question, a file. “What did you say?” But Natasha is gone.

* * *

Petrov wakes them early. His voice stays even, slightly amused, as he demands to know who they are and what they were sent for.

“Masha. Masha. I know you’re the one in charge. Just tell me what I need to know.” He pulls Steve’s chair around so Peggy can see him clearly for the first time in days. In the bare light from the doorway, he describes exactly what he’s going to do to Steve’s fingers. Steve keeps his eyes on hers the whole time. _Don’t say anything_ , they tell her.

It’s the first time she’s been properly scared since this started. The simple violence of it makes things sink in, and there really is such a thing as taking nobility too far.

“Surely you need your fingers?” she says, with a sort of practiced calm, once Petrov has left (“I’ll give you some time to think things over while I take care of some things. I’m sure you’ll come to the best decision”).

“I’d like them,” he says, “but this is more important.”

“And I assume you’re always this stubborn?” He laughs in a hushed half-gasp, and she doesn’t just hear it, she feels it against her shoulders. “So how did you end up in Records Management when you’d so clearly like to be risking your life on a regular basis?”

“I was stubborn enough to get through Quantico. I worked my _ass_ off to get through Quantico.” He shakes his head. “I just got a little...held up after that.”

Flexing her wrists as much as she can, she says dryly, “I’m familiar with such things.”

“You? Really?” He doesn’t seem admiring as much as purely incredulous, as if it’s impossible, the thought of anyone trying to stop her from doing anything.

“Surprisingly, outspoken woman from another country was not a particularly popular combination.”

“How did you get past it?”

“Being better than everyone else. Being just a bit lucky. Knowing that a kick to the groin or a sharp elbow to the ribs can work better than you might imagine. And making sure to be as stubborn and persistent as possible.”

“Well,” he says. Somehow, despite the exhaustion of being chained to a chair for likely two days, he sounds hopeful. “I’ve already got some of that down.”

“When we get out of this,” she tells him, “you’ll have it all.”

Footsteps come back down the hall. Steve’s breath quickens, but Peggy recognizes Natasha’s step on the tile.

She’s alone. She sets up her tray, and starts with Steve this time. He drinks eagerly. Peggy winces; it’s been quite a while for him.

“Should I be looking out for black widows in particular?” Peggy asks quietly, staring ahead.

Natasha pauses. “So it is you,” she says coolly, lifting the water for Steve again. He makes a questioning sound against the glass.

“Yes,” says Peggy. When she gets out, she’ll be having far more than words with Thompson about taking on a twelve-year-old as an informant, even one so clearly advanced. Perhaps especially one so clearly advanced when that comes from deep psychological scarring. “We appreciated your help before.”

“I’m sure,” says Natasha. She finishes giving Steve his food, and moves over to Peggy. They continue the routine- bathroom break with the goons looking on, returned to the chairs, the door closed again- and Peggy is sure that Petrov will be back to speak with them soon.

In the near-darkness, Peggy bends her wrist to the point of pain, finds the lock of her cuffs, and inserts the hairpin Natasha had slipped to her.

* * *

They don’t have shoes to worry about, which counts as a benefit for the moment. As does the new sports game playing at the end of the hall. The bruisers are distracted. Peggy has them down before they even realize. Steve trusses them up with some of the most beautiful knots she has ever seen.

The building they’ve been stuck in seems to be a part of an out of use spa. The wooden walls where they were trapped seem much more ominous now that she considers their potential as a sauna.

What would likely have been the reception area has been gutted, leaving only a pair of chairs and a card table with a small television. Someone (the goons? Seems unlikely) has put a wreath on the wall. It looks terribly sad, sitting lonely in the middle of the dated paneling, but it’s also a strange reminder of the season when they’ve spent days feeling out of touch with time.

Peggy and Steve trade glances. “Not exactly chestnuts roasting on an open fire,” he remarks.

“My holidays never are.” Peggy moves to the window, dropping low so she won’t be spotted looking by anyone outside. The world is still around them.

“I think we’ve been moved around ten miles, near the state forest,” she says. “It will be a bit of a walk, but I think we can get back somewhere so we can make contact.” She goes back over to the goons and begins rummaging around on their still-unconscious bodies for anything useful.

Steve follows her over. “What do you mean?”

“We need to find civilization and call this in to Phillips.” One of them, the one with the mustache, has a handful of something that feels like candy in his pocket, but which, upon closer examination, turns out to be only lozenges. She makes a face, then shrugs and decides to keep them anyway.

“What about Natasha? What about whatever the Disciples have been planning? Petrov could start something before we even got through to anyone.”

Peggy relieves the men of their weapons. “And I’m sure our rescue efforts would go over perfectly. We’d save the day, and all would be well.” She quickly checks the magazines, counting as she unloads bullets rapidly into her palm. “I understand your instinct to act and am even tempted toward it, but this is the tactical option, the safest option for everyone.” Including Steve, pressing onward on strength of will and borrowed medicine. She doesn’t want to discount his knowledge of his own limits, but the idea of him breathing freely away from all of this laps at her appealingly.

He makes a small, cut-off sound, perhaps the beginning of an argument dying in his mouth, his acquiescence to her logic rather than his desire for heroic endings. She reloads the guns- as long as they don’t get into a shooting battle, they should be fine- and finally stands and looks up at him.

Steve stands beside the table, holding his body loosely and looking grim. He is planted squarely in front of Petrov, who holds an arm around Steve’s throat.

Petrov doesn’t have a gun, which is promising, but he looks relaxed, which is not. Peggy is glad she had a chance to reload the pistols. She aims one at Petrov’s head, knowing even as he chuckles that she wouldn’t be able to use it. Her aim might be nearly perfect, but Petrov would only need to move Steve into the way (or wrestle him; Steve looks as if he wouldn’t allow it to happen easily) and it wouldn’t matter at all.

“You should have checked for a back door.” Petrov clicks his tongue. He does not call her “Masha.” Steve catches her eye. He heard it too. Petrov sees their glance and laughs. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry to lose my Masha, but Special Agent Peggy Carter might be a suitable replacement. Agent Steven Rogers, however…” Steve flinches in his grip, although Peggy doesn’t think it has tightened.

“Was there ever truly anything in motion with the Disciples?” Peggy asks. She tries to look focused on his answer, even as her mind is turning over the situation.

Petrov laughs again. “Your last partner might have been better decorated, but he wasn’t very clever, dropping information that he should not have known. I wanted to find out who was talking outside of the family, but I also needed to know who they had been talking to.” He gives her what is meant to be an avuncular smile. It looks greasy at the edges. Peggy curses Thompson in her head. “I’m glad it was you who came. If I need to see the FBI, I’m glad I can see you.”

“I’m sure you’ll understand why I can’t say the same,” she says. She knows it will be useless to try to talk with him. He’s a demagogue brought up in a lawless, ruthless family. The idea of surrender, of mercy, would be absurd to him.

She meets Steve’s eyes instead. His jaw is determined. He watches her blink, one, two, three times….

It’s a split second for her to shift her gun and put two shots through the television on the table. It does not explode, but dark glass shatters everywhere. Petrov, distracted, nearly moves away from the shards, but at the same instant, Steve brings double elbows back to ram his ribs. Petrov falls back, gasping. Peggy stands over him, pistol in hand. She feels very firm. Steve is at her side.

“There will be a phone in his pocket,” Peggy says. “It’s time to be done with this.”

As Steve slides quick, unbroken fingers around the phone, Petrov makes a winded sound, so very, very distant from his usual knowing laugh. Peggy takes a square-jawed delight in it.

Even better is the businesslike pride in Steve’s voice as he telephones for backup. He gives his badge number for what she suspects is the first time, and she can’t help but smile down at Petrov and think that, perhaps, it was worth it.

* * *

Steve and Peggy are driven over to the main compound. The Disciples are being divided up into perpetrators and victims. Peggy goes to coordinate with the agent in charge of the operation. She’s having a bit of an “if you want it done right” moment thanks to the slip-ups that brought them here.

Although, considering they’ve got at least Petrov on kidnapping of federal agents, and without harm coming to anyone, here isn’t so bad.

It’s nearly an hour later when the chaos has been sorted enough for her to look for Steve. She spots him standing beside Natasha. He holds a blanket folded in one extended hand, there if she wants to take it, but nothing he’ll force onto her.

“The court will probably appoint a guardian to represent you before you’re questioned,” he is saying as Peggy approaches. “Their only job is to make sure that you’re protected. If you don’t feel that they’re doing their job-”

“I’ll come find you,” says Natasha confidently, watching him with her careful eyes. She takes the blanket from Steve and wraps it around herself delicately.

It begins to snow. Peggy waves to Steve. He looks over at her, and the smile he gives her is such a perfect partner’s smile- admiring and tough and firmly present- that she can’t help but smile back.

“You’re with us, Natasha,” Peggy says, not quite businesslike, as she points them over to the sedan they’ve been allowed to take. “Seatbelt on.”

Peggy gets into the driver’s seat. Steve takes the passenger’s side. Natasha looks at the shadowy trees and the glimpses of snow rather than the lights of her former home as they wind away from the Disciples’ compound.

The clock changes over to midnight. “Not exactly how I was expecting Christmas to go,” Steve says, voice quiet and wry.

Peggy glances over at him. Driving beside an agent she’s barely known three days, a preteen witness in the backseat, a load of paperwork waiting, and no whiskey or lasagna or movie musicals in sight. Not exactly how she was expecting Christmas to go either.

“It could be worse,” she says, turning to smile at him for just a moment before she settles in, ready to bring them all safely home.

* * *

Most of Phillips’ expressions are tempered by gruffness; he treats Peggy to his gruff confusion when she requests that Agent Rogers be assigned as her permanent partner.

“So you had problems with the others. No reason to go for a pencil pusher who looks like he could be knocked over by a rough wind.”

Peggy thinks of Steve, small but very, deceptively solid, pushes the request form forward again, and changes the topic to Natasha, who has been put into the charge of Nick Fury, an old friend who Phillips used to work with.

She stays serene as Thompson snickers behind his hand when Steve comes up from Records to see the office for the first time. Their reports from the Petrov incident are processed a day later. Thompson’s cubicle becomes Steve’s. She hears, only later and thirdhand, that Thompson’s been both transferred and demoted.

Their first Christmas as official, permanent partners, Steve invites her to join him at his best friend’s house to celebrate, stumbling through the words though he rarely has such issues with her these days. She accepts anyway, and has a perfectly lovely time (although she could have done without her hand being wrung at every opportunity by grateful members of the Barnes family; all she’d done was give Steve the position he deserved, and take him to Dr. Erskine, a physician she knew in the Office of Medical Services, to help with his breathing).

Steve blushes as she unwraps a necklace, silver with a little star-shaped pendant. She smiles as she puts it on.

Her neck feels bare every time she has to take it off for undercover work afterward.

Their second official Christmas together is spent in lengthy, half-logical, half-comical debate over whether it’s their second Christmas together or their third. The SWAT team they’re supposed to be leading gets sick of them after about five minutes and nearly breaks down the door before they’ve been given the order.

The week before their debatable third Christmas finds them back in Phillips’s office, new partner requests in hand.

“No,” he says, holding up a finger. “You two will have to wait ‘til I’m retired so you can fool someone else into letting you spread your bad habits around.”

Steve looks at Peggy, eyes grinning over a purposefully mild expression. “Sounds like he’s encouraging us to break regulations.”

“You know, I heard the same thing.” Peggy raises an eyebrow at Phillips. “We’re spending Christmas with friends again, then going out for dinner and a movie later in the week, and I’m expecting him to be my New Year’s kiss, so either you approve the request, or you’re going to be quite the accomplice in our breaking of the Bureau’s fraternization rules.”

Peggy stands. Steve, pink in the face, stands with her, as Phillips lets out a stream of disgruntled huffs behind them.

She takes his hand, or he takes hers, but they walk out of the office holding onto each other, precisely side by side.

**Author's Note:**

> (As part of this AU, everyone can use each other's inhalers interchangeably. In our real world, probs don't do that.)


End file.
